Bette Wharton was everything Paul could ask for in a business associate. Polite, professional, cordial, accommodating. She was also elusive, unattainable and distant. She was driving him crazy.
She managed to be tied up on another line each of the four times he called Monday. Each time her assistant, Darla, asked if she could be of help. Finally, Darla pointed out they needed his decision on which assistant he wanted as his permanent temporary. With less than his usual good humor, he muttered that they should send him whomever they felt like.
So, starting Tuesday morning, he had Janine Taylor to place his calls to Bette Wharton several times a day. And he had Janine Taylor to tell him with polite indifference that Ms. Wharton was not available at the moment, several times a day.
Wednesday, he had an appraisal to do for a gregarious Lionel train collector in a small city about two hours away, but he called three times with the same results. The fourth time, when he’d finally pried himself clear of the collector and was on his way back, he got the recording that said her office had closed for the day. After quick calculations of train schedules, he took a chance and called Bette’s home number, acquired from information.
On the fifth ring, he heard her breathless “Hello,” and his blood started moving as if it had been dammed up for the past three days.
“Bette, it’s Paul. How about some dinner tonight?”
The pause was long and telling. He thought he could hear her resolve hardening. “No, thank you, Paul.”
That was all. No explanation, no nothing. She’d left him nothing to grasp on to.
“You have plans?” He tried to make it sound understanding.
“I’m sorry, Paul. I don’t think it’s a good idea—” She broke off so abruptly, he knew she remembered Sunday night and what else she hadn’t considered a good idea. That gave him renewed hope, which he needed after her next sentence. “I don’t care to see you, Paul. Good night.”
The click was nearly as soft as her voice.
He stayed irked all that night and the following day. Irked enough not to get much sleep and irked enough to resist the temptation to call her office again the next day. But not irked enough to kill the urge to see her.
Prelude to a Wedding (The Wedding Series Book 1) Page 15
